Fruitfulness eBook

She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging
to him, with her head resting on his shoulder.
And Mathieu, by the side of that loving, trustful
woman, all health and rectitude and purity, felt more
and more confused, more and more ashamed of himself,
ashamed of having given heed to the base, sordid,
calculating principles which others made the basis
of their lives. He thought with loathing of the
sudden frenzy which had possessed him during the evening
in Paris. Some poison must have been instilled
into his veins; he could not recognize himself.
But honor and rectitude, clear-sightedness and trustfulness
in life were fast returning. Through the window,
which had remained open, all the sounds of the lovely
spring night poured into the room. It was spring,
the season of love, and beneath the palpitating stars
in the broad heavens, from fields and forests and
waters came the murmur of germinating life. And
never had Mathieu more fully realized that, whatever
loss may result, whatever difficulty may arise, whatever
fate may be in store, all the creative powers of the
world, whether of the animal order, whether of the
order of the plants, for ever and ever wage life’s
great incessant battle against death. Man alone,
dissolute and diseased among all the other denizens
of the world, all the healthful forces of nature, seeks
death for death’s sake, the annihilation of
his species. Then Mathieu again caught his wife
in a close embrace, printing on her lips a long, ardent
kiss.

“Ah! dear heart, forgive me; I doubted both
of us. It would be impossible for either of us
to sleep unless you forgive me. Well, let the
others hold us in derision and contempt if they choose.
Let us love and live as nature tells us, for you are
right: therein lies true wisdom and true courage.”

V

Mathieu rose noiselessly from his little folding
iron bedstead beside the large one of mahogany, on
which Marianne lay alone. He looked at her, and
saw that she was awake and smiling.

“What! you are not asleep?” said he.
“I hardly dared to stir for fear of waking you.
It is nearly nine o’clock, you know.”

It was Sunday morning. January had come round,
and they were in Paris. During the first fortnight
in December the weather had proved frightful at Chantebled,
icy rains being followed by snow and terrible cold.
This rigorous temperature, coupled with the circumstance
that Marianne was again expecting to become a mother,
had finally induced Mathieu to accept Beauchene’s
amiable offer to place at his disposal the little pavilion
in the Rue de la Federation, where the founder of
the works had lived before building the superb house
on the quay. An old foreman who had occupied
this pavilion, which still contained the simple furniture
of former days, had lately died. And the young
folks, desiring to be near their friend, worthy Dr.
Boutan, had lived there for a month now, and did not
intend to return to Chantebled until the first fine
days in April.